LOKISSON (hp crossover fic)
by doyoueverwonderwhy
Summary: Harry James Potter, or Hardun Jerrik Lokison, is the son and heir of the Trickster, Silvertongue, the Asgardian-raised Jotun prince Loki. Tom Marvolo Riddle tried to kill the boy because of a prophecy, but with mixed blood, possible immortality, and the rune of Dagaz on his forehead, his story becomes something altogether even more unexpected... Slytherin!Independent!Powerful!Harry
1. chapter I

**LOKISSON** ; **chapter I**

* * *

A cruel, deadened creature made his way through the village of Godric's Hollow. It was All Hallows' Eve, and the filthy Mudbloods and Muggles that lived on the edges of the wards were celebrating some holiday or other, he thought derisively as he strode through the town.

A young boy looked up at him, entirely too happy with himself, with life. He'd never be anything more than a dirty-blooded magicless sack, what was there to be happy about? He laughed slightly, a chilling sound made the people in the near vicinity freeze, but not the child. "Nice costume, Mister! And I like yo-"

"Avada Kedavra." He kicked the corpse, to make sure it was dead, then followed up the street to where the Potters lived. He entered the cottage, to kill the only threat to his immortality. The man - James Potter - was downstairs, and, upon seeing him, screamed, rushing to grab not his wand upstairs, but some sort of runestone, and then run up the stairs to his family and wand and protect his child and wife. "Avada Kedavra." James Potter was no more.

Altogether far too easy, he mused. Ah well. The Mudblood his servant Snape loved so much rushed to block the stairway, hesitating for a split-second when she saw the noseless pale face of the man on the stairs. But she tried to stop him anyway, futilely rushing to shield her child. "Not my son! Not my son! Take me instead- NOT HARRY!" She pleaded, babbling for him to spare the foolish infant. The infant was all he had come to kill, but he could murder her as well if he wanted.

"Step aside foolish girl." Tom Marvolo Riddle laughed. And killed her.

She fell, and her auburn hair whipped in the wind as the life left her body and she was nothing but a body of dead flesh.

* * *

And on a world a realm away, the Trickster's runewatcher stopped stinging and began to burn. The first time, he got worried, and began to make an excuse. Then it stung again, and he needed to move. He yelped slightly in the room, and pretended to leave the feast because he had just remembered something to do. The burning he'd cast if anyone had died inside the house's wards, the stinging was for danger. It would look bad to leave the feast for the ambassador of Niflheim, but he cared much more about his son - and to a lesser extent Lily, and James. It was impolite to leave, quite rude in fact, but he could no longer ignore the danger.

* * *

The man with the torn soul approached the boy in the cradle, the younghalfrace, the son of Silvertongue.

* * *

Therunewatcher stung again, and the Trickster's face was full of fear as he jumped off the railing of a balcony in Asgard onto the multidimensions of the World Tree, Yggdrasil.

* * *

Voldemort pointed his wand at Harry James Potter, or Hardun Jerrik Lokison, and smiled chillingly. "Avada Kedavra."

* * *

The god rushed through the nine realms, quickly and full of intent. He knew it would sting if there was danger, but there were two proficient wizards in the house, and they had been assured the Fidelius charm was nigh unbreakable. Now though... Two people had died in the house. One he could have passed off as perhaps a dead attacker, one was dangerous and needed to be checked, but he could have made an excuse that had more evidence, a more well-made one by spending a bit more time, faking sickness or something or other. Two meant either there had been two or more attackers- not good odds - or perhaps Harry and Lily had died? Or it could have been the wards acting up.

Still though.

He went into Yggdrasil and felt to the easiest way to Midgard. It took but seconds- Loki was rather good at this sort of thing, naturally, and having traversed the World Tree so many times over the millenniums it was easy. Getting to his son [and once-lover, and her husband] was quick and fast and short, but you could kill a baby, even one that would grow to be a powerful mage in time; you could kill a baby like Loki's heir very quickly, and then he'd be gone forever. Like Hel, she was there one minute, perhaps a bit odd-looking, but she was his, the next time he checked after his bath... Odin had thrown her down the realms, and he was forbidden from seeing her ever again. It was the same with all his other children - Fenris, prophesied to fight against Asgard in Ragnarok, Jðrmungand, Sleiþnir forever burdened with carrying the Allfather's chariots. He still visited them when he could, slipping unseen when they were distracted, and they knew he could not do much more, but it was never enough.

They were the Trickster's children, and each monstrous in their own way, and the Asgardians hated oddities, they hated the misbegotten ugly beings he had sired. He was their father, and his duty was to protect them, to cherish them like Angrb _ō_ da had never done. And he failed, loving but weak. He knew what it was like to be looked down on, feared slightly. If he had not been a prince... Well, the only respect he had came from his brother's prowess and his father's might, he was simply the not-wanted one, the boy who was much too proficient in a women's art, the father of monsters. And his children were looked down on even more, and he feared what would happen to his Midgardian son Hardun.

* * *

There was a flash of green light, and a scream and the house was blown apart in the resounding explosion.

* * *

The god fell out of the air into Godric's Hollow on the road opposite, and could only watch in horror as half of the house caved in, and he heard a tortured wail.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle felt pain and the ache of a splitting soul, and wished he could die, reach the silence that was almost there.

* * *

Loki leapt into the ruins and furiously searched the house, extending his magic to find any survivors. A tingle told him his son was alive at the top of the swaying building, and he heard a faint cry. Stabilizing the half-bent architecture, he placed it in statsis and ran up the stairs, staring for a second at the body of the girl with the fiery hair that had so tempted him, Lily. But his son was so much more important and she was dead, and he put his magic and spirit and considerable strength into it, and he was atHardun in but a few seconds more.

* * *

The boy looked up at his father and felt the warm tingle of Loki's magic, and stopped his tears.

* * *

The dark-haired being looked at his son. A young mirror image of the Asgardian prince, with the same inky hair and emerald eyes, and no doubt powerful magics and a silver tongue in time as well. Looking at him, you could see nothing of his mother's warmth or auburn hair, but that was as he had expected. Jotun and Asgardian genes were always dominant, but still~ There had been very few children of Midgard and Asgard, and none of Jotunheim and Midgard, but in the few that had ever been born, not all of the traits carried. Some had the normal extended lives. Others...

He tried not to think about it, but the boy would grow up so soon, and he had not much precious time left if he was mortal. Loki checked him over, properly, and noticed a slight visual impairment that would need correction later on, and easily fixed it, but the other, magical, blemish was not so easily changed.

His forehead was infested with dark magic - a soul shard, something he would have to carefully remove later when he was older. If he tried to pull it out now his son and heir could easily die, later, though, when he had grown into his immortality or was in his mortal prime, it would be much less dangerous. He could not visit his very often, every few months if he was lucky, very lucky... The allfather, or more likely Thor, would notice if he kept going to Midgard. Still, he needed to know where his son was; he could always quite easily track him, looking for the magic aura that mirrored his own, and Frigga's, but he would place a tracking rune as well. Just in case something happened and he needed a split-second advantage.

Loki touched his son's forehead, and layered his rune on the Horcrux. It would keep most of the evil in the soul at bay, and protect him against low demons, and their sort. A shape resembling a double lightning-bolt, it was Dagaz, and he could know where his son was through it, and lend him some of his strength. It was good when he was mortal, but if he grew to a Jotun, then it would be looked down upon, and so he made it easily removable - though only from his hand, although Frigga could have possibly also removed it, she was almost as deep into these arts as he, and could have bypassed the safekeep with a bit of difficulty.

He kissed the boy's head and vanished into the air.


	2. chapter II

**LOKISSON** ; **chapter II**

* * *

They heard the scream, and the shouts, and saw the ruined building. Sirius, his godfather, heard, and came to the cottage first. And he saw their bodies and he mourned the old friends he had known, and that they had been betrayed. But though he saw the youngster, black-haired, emerald-eyed, with a strange scar on his forehead as he rushed up and down the stairs taking it all in, he heeded him not. Their child was important, that he did not deny, but he was sobbing and angry and did not think of the last alive remnant of Lily, alone above the rubble, at the top of the tilted cottage.

* * *

Hagrid came too, the large oaf of a halfgiant, blindly heeding the orders of his master. He asked the weeping man if he could borrow the motorcycle, and took the baby, the son of Loki and Lily, across the sky and to the place he was told to go, the Muggle village Harry would be raised in.

* * *

All the dog animagus could do was watch and weep and swear vengeance upon the Rat. He had not much left, now. Estranged from Lupin, all he had was the boy, the last Potter, his godson. He shook his head for a second. Whatever had happened, Harry had somehow survived. He would be fine. Dumbledore would see to it, after all, James and Lily would have named good families in their will, to take care of him. Of course. His head cleared, and he began to get up, roughly wiping away the tears. They would be avenged. He would kill the once-friend, Peter Pettigrew.

* * *

And so the princeling, the son of the Trickster, was left on the doorstep of the mortals, under the watchful twinkling eyes of the grandfatherly Dumbledore. He was left, against his mother and foster-father's wills, to his magic-hating maternal relatives the Dursleys, a baby tucked in a ragged scrap of a blanket, clutching a letter.

* * *

Many miles away, the youngling's godfather was confronting the man who had cost them his mother's [and foster-father James'] life, and shouting at him in anger and trying to kill the sniveling coward that was once one of them. Peter Pettigrew simply stared at the man who had been his cheeky, always-laughing friend, and froze at the maelstrom of hate and sadness that now raged before him, quickly making a plan up. So he hacked off his finger with the desperation of a cornered man, aiming his wand behind his back, and, summoning the darkest of spells his Lord had taught him, blew up the street behind, and the useless Muggles on it as well. Blood and gore went flying and his finger was on the street, easy to check who the appendage had belonged to, and, screaming out several garbled phrases about Lord Voldemort's greatness, shifted into a rat, running into the sewers with the others.

* * *

Harry's mundane, mortal Aunt found him when she went outside for the milk. She was confused and angry at her sister for getting herself killed, and sleep-deprived because of Dudley, and scared for herself and Vernon if she did not take the boy in. After all, the letter threatened that "I am the greatest wizard of all time, and if I have to I will hunt you down and force your mind to make you take the boy in for the Greater Good..." Perhaps the freak was just boasting, but still. Petunia Elizabeth Vernon did not realize that the man threatening her was the same one who'd written a mildly patronizing letter to her frantic request to learn magic, but the menacing warning still shocked her to the core.

She shuddered and screamed for her husband.

* * *

Sirius Orion Black was found, crumpled on the street, crying by a squad of Aurors.

Two eyewitness accounts convinced them he was guilty, and the issue was quickly skated over at the Wizengamont the next week when the Supreme Mugwump also informed them that "Sadly, the Heir of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black- Sirius Black, to be convicted for a lifetime sentence in Azkaban in a high-security wing for killing twelve Muggles and is suspected of causing the deaths of Lord James and Lily Potter as a supporter of Voldemort."

His sad countenance convinced most of the Houses of his sincerity and the boy's godfather was quickly convicted without a trial.

* * *

Petunia Dursley took the baby lying in the rags, who looked nothing like her sister, the green eyes brighter and larger than Lily's, the nose an elegant twist unlike the shorter one her sister had. Still, he was her nephew, and he might not be a freak like Lily... She sighed and brought the baby into her house, and easily convinced her husband it was necessary [Vernon was caring but had always been easy to manipulate like that].

The son of Loki stared back up at her, young and innocent, blissfully unaware of all that had happened.


	3. chapter III

**LOKISSON** ; **chapter III**

* * *

[a/n timeskips]

* * *

There was a small revolt in Vanaheim, but when he realized it would be subdued easily, the god of lies used the opportunity to go back to the mortal realm once more, though it had scarce been long since he had last seen his son [two weeks, in fact]. He went down, easily finding him with his rune, Dagaz, the one he had penned on his son's forehead. Loki soon found himself at a rather boring, nondescript house - 4 Privet Drive, it was. Well, it seemed nicely put-together, the garden neatly trimmed, and while the inhabitants did not look well, wealthy, and there was nowhere near the pomp and splendor of the palace he normally stayed in on Asgard, it was good enough.

And the Trickster smiled, strolling to the door, and elegantly pushing the doorbell with a long finger. He wondered on a whim that it would not do to leave a prince out in the cold, though of course it affected him not in the slightest, and hummed an opera he'd listened to several centuries ago in Paris. And then he waited, summoning a chair out of thin air with a dust of cold blue magic, shrugging lightly, wearing the finest embossed leather, the god of mishief waited outside of Dursley's for a few minutes, humming, thinking...

Until the door opened with a slam in his face, and an ugly matron stared at him with piggish eyes. He smiled darkly.

"I'm afraid you have my son in your possession...?"

She paled. "You- you freak! They said you died from some d-dark wizard..."

His smile darkened further and he stood taller, relinquishing some of the easiness from his figure. "I am a freak, I suppose", he laughed coldly, "But if you are to have your lives still in but five minutes, you will listen to me and you will not hurt my son."

She squealed a bit, in fear, and was silenced immediately when he put an unnaturally pale finger on her mouth, stifling her vocal chords with icy skill.

"So... Where were we? Ah, yes. You will treat my son with the absolute respect and the utmost (well, I sense you have little love for magic-users, so not love, but rather) care. You will buy him all he needs, give him a good, ample, childhood and you will not object to his magic in the slightest, however much it might chafe you to do so. Otherwise you shall feel my wrath. Trust me, it's not really something you'd want coming down on Midgard."

Loki smiled dangerously and, trilling a tune, disappeared into mist.

* * *

Harry was five, and he was crying because Aunt Petunia said he couldn't have a birthday party, but Dudley had had one, several months before.

All she did was smile, with that strange emotion he'd come to acquaint with frigidly polite annoyance, and told him she was "So sorry, Harrykins" but he could have one next year. And he started crying; he wasn't as bad as Dudley when it came to tantrums and fits, but he was quite proficient in manipulating his aunt with innocent tears. This time, though, she didn't budge, and so he stopped and, seeing he could not get his way, threw a sad look back at her (guiltiness didn't work as well, but perhaps she'd budge more in the future if she remembered his inner turmoil when he had been denied a birthday party the first time).

* * *

It was one of those rare occasions when his father came, and Loki told Harry that he should be trained in the arts of witchcraft, and war, and the polite threats of nobility. He would not be as important to Asgardians as he would be if he was Thor's son ; and with both Thor, Loki, and any children Thor might have in the future [in fact, Frigga felt strongly that he needed heirs, and she wanted Thor to have grandchildren so much she'd already picked out names - Modi or Magni should he ever have children] in front of him for succession to the throne of Asgard. Still, at the moment he would have been third in line for the kingship, fourth if Baldr had still been alive, so it was not impossible that he could one day be Allfather.

* * *

And so Loki diligently taught him, not excessively patient or gently, but with calm expertise. Perhaps he was young, still, but the princes had been tutored with such things even earlier, under Odin's watchful gaze, and after year of lessons Loki easily made sure Hardun soon learnt the basics of most things he needed. He was most adept at the magics, which was unsurprising considering his parentage, but an almost-prodigy at runes, something the Trickster was quite proud of; his son had a very good memory for the basics of runic lore and a steady hand with a runemarker. The boy was less skillful at fighting, though over the course of several mock-duels he began to develop his own style - trickery, mostly defence but quick stabs or thrusts when the opponent was distracted, quite alike to his father's. He would never be as muscle-bound or strong as his uncle Thor - indeed, not many were - but in time he could become quite a decent fighter.


	4. chapter IV

**LOKISSON** ; **chapter IV**

* * *

Over the last few years, with lessons by his father starting at a young age, Hardun Jerrik Lokison had grown into an intelligent, strong, eleven-year-old, albeit smaller than other humans his age [Jotuns and Aesir grew much slower than mortal Midgardians]. He had the smoothness of his father, and even with comparably short height [though in time he'd be taller than any normal human; unnaturally tall, as they normally grew into their height and nigh-immortality at sixteen or seventeen. However, even at eleven years of age, Harry was imposing enough to command attention when he so wished, with his shining eyes and velvet voice.

* * *

He had magic, and much more of it than any of the mortals, and he knew like his mother he'd likely be accepted to the British school of witchcraft, and while Loki could teach him everything he could possibly learn there, and much more, much quicker, his father had duties and schemes and other things to occupy his time, it was rather a miracle he'd been able to teach his son at all, and kept him hidden all the while. He was not known as the god of lies, mischief, and trickery for no reason, though, and while Harry had a way with words, his father could wheedle anything out of anyone, mildly threaten people while having nothing, and was much too good at acting and deception, having practiced it a lot over the centuries. And he thought going to Hogwarts would be a decent idea, Harry'd be far ahead, but could probably have a semi-safe place to study his advanced runes and magics. And while the mortals and the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress, teachers, most of Britain, while they liked to boast it was impossible to break into, and so much safer than anywhere, Harry resolved to put heavy warding enchantments on his bed, trunk, bags and books, and be equipped with runes and magics for anything that might occur. Just in case, though to be honest he slept lighter than any mortal, and needed but a few hours at most, so was not as vulnerable.

So, unsurprised when he received the envelope in the mail, he quickly scanned the list, shrugged, and decided for a trip to Diagon Alley the week after next.

* * *

The next time Loki came, he nodded, calmly, advised him to get the best robes he could as befit his station, and, drawing an embossed card of mahogany, gave it to him, smiling a bit mischievously and told him of what it was, and how it had been used before. And that goblins were much more liable to treat you with respect if you flaunted what you have, gave them a taste of fear, reasserted your superiority. When he left, after an hour or so, [so they didn't get suspicious of where he went, but also to get some work done], his son began practicing the way his father walked, the way he smiled, everything that made Loki so smooth and refined.

Unbeknownst to the boy, his father watched, calmly, looking at his son with a sweet caring hardly seen on his strong features much anymore. Shrugging slightly at the childish behavior - and yet the boy was so young, so young, and had hardly lived long- he smiled, with genuine love on his face, then disappeared, going back through Yggdrasil to the realm where he normally dwelt.

* * *

Harry took a deep breath and stopped in front of the bank. The unnaturally calm boy with inhumanly emerald eyes stepped onto the scuffed marble steps and loosely, lackadaisically, fluid and royal, with elegant stride, walked into the bank. As he entered he flared out his aura, a cold powerful wash that turned every goblin's head.

As he strode to the counter he drew out a heavily jeweled piece of carved wood from the multidimensions with a flick of colored magic and an old spell he'd been taught by the God of witchcraft and magics himself. Smiling mischievously, he placed it down on the desk with his long fingers.

" I'd like to access the vault promised by this bank for the royal family of Asgard and those that they choose..." He spoke fluently in the goblin-tongue of old, using a few words that had not been commonly used for centuries. [He'd been taught by his father, and Loki's knowledge of it was still millennia out of date despite his best attempts to modernize his languages with the rolling years]

* * *

When Gringotts had started out, as an ambitious venture made by a Norse dwarven chieftain, recycling an old mine, it had been a little-known moneylender and safe gold storage, competing with the local Jewish moneylenders. As was customary for the opening of new businesses and shops, they had burned an embossed version of their wares [in this case, an early vault credit] with a promise of unlimited use of their services if the whim arose, for the gods of Asgard, the supreme ruler Odin, and his heirs.

It has been relegated to the huge masses of the royal vaults of Asgard, and was little-used, though several of Thor's young misadventures or Loki's mischief had occurred on Midgard and they had ended up having need of the promise, though they had nigh unlimited gold and much rarer metals in their possession.

Tales of Lady Sif striding in holding it and shouting at the dwarves stayed in their memories, however, and when the ailing race turned over the now hugely successful monopoly over to the goblins, strands of stories and culture came with them.

* * *

Bony fingers trembling, the Junior Assistant teller hurried in and began to nod, shivering, and frightenedly called for a vault car, the nicest one that could be found-

* * *

Chuckling softly, Harry withdrew as much as he dared -he didn't want to deprive the bank too badly, after all- and strolled leisurely out of Gringotts, asking a nearby shop-owner for the best private tailor and/or the nicest and most expensive robe-maker.

* * *

A few hours later, the strikingly handsome and elegant boy was wearing a long dash cut of inky black silk robes with green edging, and holding an expensive embossed leather trunk he'd already warded strongly, filled with literature, some freshly bought- others his father had smuggled out of the royal library for him. He'd edged all his school robes with silver and his crest, and had bought dress robes, and heavy travelling cloaks as well.

Finally having everything, he smiled, turning on his heel and apparating without the slightest noise to the house on Privet Drive [He'd read about apparition early on and had all but perfected it, and was trying currently to get in past wards. He had a feeling he'd be put in Slytherin, he was ambitious and manipulative, the son of the god most known for both harmless, but also malevolent trickery, lies. Quite alike to his father.

And although he was shorter than mortal boys his age, he still cut an impressive figure - piercing green eyes that could see farther than most, and black waves of hair down to the shoulder, bible-black, darker than charcoal. Complete with his sly voice and handsome features, he was the very epitome of a Slytherin - cunning, royal, ambitious.


	5. chapter V

**LOKISSON** ; **chapter V**

* * *

There was a boy, slightly short, and yet he handled his trunks with ease on the train station platform. He strode, pushing a short corroded-grey wire trolley towards the 9th platform, half-smiling as he saw the concealed rune-work etching on his clearsighted vision. He strode at a calm yet quick pace towards the barrier with the invisible silver marks, not even blinking as the visibility spectrum warped as he passed through the solid [-looking] brick wall.

He stopped at the edge of the scarlet train, pushing a curl-wave of ink-black hair, and easily carried the cases with a grace unusual for such heavy luggage, stepping up onto the scuffed train door's threshold and bringing his bags inside. Harry walked down the corridors until he found an empty one, then settled on the worn red velvety fabric of the compartment seats, and began to read _An Advanced History of Elemental Lerignmenligy_ , which he found to be, although rather dry and a bit impractical, exceedingly interesting.

Most of the train ride passed without interruption, and he was perfectly happy to read alone, but after around one hour and forty-seven minutes on the Hogwarts Express [it _was_ only an estimation, though], a rather bushy-haired girl peeked her head into the mostly empty carriage.

"Have you seen a toad..? You see, Neville here's lost it, and-" Her voice was a bit haughty, and the son of Loki instantly disliked her. With an imperceptible grimace, he rose, trailing one pale hand on the velvety seat.

"No, I'm afraid not. I'm sure someone has further down though." He added an aura of subconscious thank-you-now-go-away to his tone, and was happy to see it worked. She left, after a quick, "Thank you, I suppose I'll check some of the carriages further down". He continued reading his tome in peace.

* * *

Finally finishing the lengthy essay, Harry unlocked his trunk with a murmur as he felt the handmade lock, warded against all demons, spirits, ghosts, and even Gods - though he including his father, as he hadn't yet fixed the wards that far. There was also a strong spell preventing other students from just opening it; the lock was keyed to him, and him only. He took out another book, this time about research into brain cancer and magical cures for it, and began to flick through the prefects made their rounds to most of the compartments to check in on the occupants and tell them they were nearing the school. The Trickster's son had already come in his robes, though, and thanked them quickly then began reading

Not long after, the prefects, making their rounds to most of the compartments to check in on the occupants, opened his door to tell him they were nearing the school. The Trickster's son had already come in his robes, though, and thanked them quickly then continued reading, pensively sucking a chocolate frog he'd bought from the cart.

* * *

They had to get into boats, and Harry ended up with Neville Longbottom, who was a kindhearted, and sweet boy, if a bit of a fool, the Granger girl, and Blaise Zambini, who he instantly took a liking to. He was a bit harsh, though polite to Harry, and although deeply manipulative, not really cruel at heart. They chatted for a few minutes on introductory conversation - "Hello", "What's your name and surname...?", "Do you have siblings?", "What house would you want to end up in?", "Slytherin or Ravenclaw, Hufflepuffs are blubbering idiots, let's _share_ , we _love everyone_ , what morons!", etc

Their conversation abruptly came to an end, though, as everyone except Harry in their little boat "ooh"ed and "ahhhh"ed at the musty old castle. It was rather nice, he supposed, but looked a bit drafty, though the architecture wasn't half bad. _He_ wasn't going to turn into a blubbering mess at the very sight of it though, but he did appreciate the grandness and scale.

* * *

They walked up to the old mahogany door. The son of Loki observed the rather well-done runes and wards blocking everyone from apparating, and the lesser ones tracking them as the children entered. There were several alert wards and he was sure the paintings would report as well. Though of course he was sure his father was powerful and uncaring enough to be able to apparate directly, bypassing the wards - which, although strong, were one of the many things that could not withstand the God of Magic himself.

Several "ghost"s floated in. They seemed nice enough, but, having learnt from his father to deeply disapprove of trying to cheat death, he scowled imperceptibly and did not greet them at all. And so after several minutes, they entered.

Harry was a bit amazed at the hat - someone had enchanted it, and if he wasn't mistaken used a bit of runework as well, to give the object a slight ability to probe minds, though he doubted it would be able to see into his. Looking around at the houses, and listening to the traits they valued, he settled on Slytherin - he'd always liked the color silver, and besides, was adept at Parseltongue. As they reached "Polfrey, Georgia", he smiled, thinking over what he was about to do.

* * *

"Potter, Harry." Many looked at him as he made his way up to the seat with the wizened hat, taking careful and measured strides. Minerva McGonagall raised up the hat, smiling in the assurance he'd be joining her House.

It touched the long black locks of his head, and after a mere moment's deliberation... [It had been unable to read his mind as he was, firstly, not human, and secondly, considered Occlumency and guarding one's mind essential, so had literally just told the Hat where he wanted to be]. "Slytherin!" And the heads of most of the Hall turned to look at Harry James Potter [though actually of course, he had been Named at birth as Hardun Jerrik Lokison] who had been Sorted with the snakes- that, of all the Houses! The first Potter like that in well over centuries...

* * *

And there was a long and tangible silence.

* * *

The half-Jotun in question, however, simply smiled brightly with a glint in those now glittering green gems of eyes, laughing slightly. "I rather expected this House, to be honest", he said, enjoying the expressions of the students staring at him, rather dumbfounded. "After all, green _is_ such a lovely color."

He elegantly walked to the table and slid onto the bench. After a few seconds, they were roused from their awe, the Slytherins first, and the talk and chatter slowly regained the former buzz. The Transfiguration professor calling out the students flinched and, stuttering slightly, began on the next name. "Prautner, Ian..." Everything started to settle down.

A large dark-skinned boy, most likely a third or fourth year, grinned at him. "So, you're Harry Potter, eh?" He laughed, a much deeper, throaty sound, especially than the high chuckle of Silvertongue the second. "I expected a manic hero of a Gryffindor, all selfless and noble, come to save the day." Lokison looked back at him levelly. "Everyone thought I'd be an exact carbon-copy of my father, I'm sure", [in reality he actually did resemble Loki quite in looks and demeanour], "Ah well, I'm afraid I'm a tad too ambitious, and care much too much about keeping myself alive, you know, for that House of stupidity and heroics." The other student looked impressed. "Wow- well, I'm Marcus Flint, pleased to meet you."

He extended a dark hand and Harry shook it.

They chatted lightly for a few minutes regarding politics, and the proper classification of "being", and Marcus told him about the different professors and their favoritisms, and their Head of House, Snape, who had been regarding Hardun curiously.

After a minute or so another Slytherin was called, and yet another sat down next to him, introducing himself as Erin Rivers, a halfblood whose mother was also muggleborn.

* * *

The trickle of Sorted students stopped after "Zambini, Blaise" joined the ranks of silver and green. After a short pause, the aged Headmaster rose to give a few words, reminding pupils about banned items, and welcoming the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, but all of his speech was not so innocent. He warned students off venturing to the third floor lest they suffer a "painful and gruesome death", and madly ended his speech with words of nonsense keyed in to respond with the feast finally appearing.

The black-haired boy rolled his eyes at the idiotic antics of the man, then remembering that Dumbledore had almost cost him a happy childhood with his stupidity, scowled at the grandfatherly facade of esteemed venerability. The feast, however, was not so bad, with varied dishes cooked reasonably well, and he ate a great deal [this was when both Midgardian and Jotun children began to grow the most, and to develop the predicted great height he needed much more fuel than the weaker mortals].

Ending with a badly-composed school song that could have been written by a toddler, the Hall became a cacophony of varying tunes and with his much more sensitive ears he cringed in disgust.

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy-woggy Hogwarts...  
Teach us something please,  
Whether we be old and bald or young with scabby knees,  
Our heads could do with filling with some interesting stuff-  
For now they're bare and full of hair, dead flies and bits of fluff,  
So...  
Teach us things worth learning, bring back what we forgot,  
You do your best, we'll do the rest, and learn until our brains all rot!"

* * *

As the old fool wished them a good night the young Slytherin began to get up with the rest and move to the dormitories and common room. They, of course, were given the worst place in the castle for their residence in a show of blatant discrimination, and though the drafty dungeons did not bother Harry in the slightest [after all, his father was a frost giant, and they traditionally lived in subzero temperatures], he still felt indignant at the common dismissal and bias towards his House as evil and Dark, and decided to take it up in court whenever he had the chance.


End file.
